


A Stroll

by Gone_Elsewhere2



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Drug Abuse, Gen, child abuse I guess?, i don't really know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gone_Elsewhere2/pseuds/Gone_Elsewhere2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story regarding my headcanon as to why my Boss doesn't kill civilians.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stroll

It's kind of a miracle that the apartment building is still there after all these years, you think. It feels as though it's been on its last legs since you were a kid and god knows that was a long time ago. Maybe it's even more of a miracle that you're here at all when you swore you'd never come back.

Returning to Stilwater, even as a strong candidate for President of the entire goddamned United States, is as much of a nonevent as anything could be. It's as though the city is trapped in its own little bubble and doesn't give a shit about anything that takes place outside of it. Stilwater is its own little world, for better or for worse, but right now you think it's a blessing that not a single person has paid you any mind (with the exception of the whores, and the thugs that torment everyone, of course). You stand outside of the building for a few minutes before walking inside.

Holy hell, it reeks. The lights are tinny and fluorescent and inexplicably manage to perfectly highlight the grime between the tiles and the stains on the walls. The small window in the door to the staircase is coated in something thick enough to obscure your vision. You make a mental note to incinerate these heels when you get home and press on, forcing yourself to make contact with the doorknob. As you begin walking up the stairs, everything starts familiarizing. Four flights up you take the door and then walk to the right until you reach number 408. Naturally, you tell yourself, the door is locked -- or worse, people could be living here. Best to leave now, because fuck sentimentality anyway. But something propels you forward, and your mind registers surprise when you hear the click and the door opens.

The next thing to surface in your mind is that it really isn't changed much.

The lack of human noise tells you this place is probably still uninhabited, thank god. Of course, the lack of a lock on the door means that near everything that used to be here is gone, but that's okay, because you can still visualize all of it in perfect clarity. The kitchen counter is coated in a layer of dust probably half an inch thick, but you can still see the marks on the floor where the sofa used to sit. It looks like the television is still here, albeit with a large chunk of the actual screen splintered off. You have a few moments to contemplate your surroundings before the bad memories come back.

Your mind recreates hot taste of iron in your mouth perfectly and it's almost welcome as you remember the bruises that covered your face and the impact of his fists. You remember the purple marks around your throat when you looked at yourself in the mirror. You can feel the sting of her slap on your face and the taste of vodka and cheap weed on her breath. You remember lying still on the sofa, trying not to breathe as you hear the sounds behind their bedroom door. Then you remember what was in there, the broken glass and needles, plastic bags and bottles. It's another miracle, you note to yourself, that they stayed together as long as they did -- but of course, you know it wasn't because of love, or anything so silly, it was just because they were so fucking worthless that neither of them could afford a home on their own. How you managed to come out of this hellhole is another one (that's three miracles you've thought of in one day) when food was scarce and the two of them spent every penny they had on new and innovative ways to get high.

God, why the hell did you come here, anyway?

Now you remember. This was a little reminder to yourself that you were human, something to slap you like your mother used to and let you recall where you came from. It's a reminder of why the anger boils your blood when people accuse you of slaughtering innocents. Are you ruthless? Absolutely. A public enemy, maybe, and a bitch definitely. You're not a nice person and you've never claimed to be -- a childhood like this one is to blame for that, you think. But preying on the helpless and the confused -- the bystanders? There is no way that you would ever let yourself become what they were. No way you would do to anyone else what they did to you.

_So that's why I beat you down, Johnny_ , you think to yourself. _That's why I screamed in your face and left your right eye swollen. Because that man never did anything to you. We might be fucking killers but there is no way in hell that's the kind of person we kill._

You spit on the ground for good measure and walk out of the room, not bothering to close the door that won't lock. Suddenly you have a flash of something else: something you wanted as a child that you never got. You always thought the piano sounded pretty and all you wanted was to learn to play. Of course, in a shithole like Stilwater, there isn't a piano in sight.

But maybe you've found a use for the grand piano in the penthouse.


End file.
